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墨書 Inktalez
When James returned home, he stood in the foyer, looking around, his mind suddenly blank. The familiar decor, the dim lighting, the quiet atmosphere all signified that he was back in his own home. Yet, James felt an inexplicable disorientation, as if none of this belonged to him. He was shocked to realize that he could not remember how he had walked home; the entire process seemed to have been erased from his mind, leaving only a fog and that dark red book.
He instinctively touched his forehead, feeling a chill in his palms, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The words of that student echoed in his ears, lingering like a whisper that refused to fade away. Each phrase coiled in his mind like a venomous snake, especially terms like "Blood Moon" and "Sacrifice," which were deeply etched into his consciousness, making it impossible for him to escape.
"How... did I get back?" James murmured to himself, feeling as though he had lost his soul. He experienced a level of confusion and unease he had never felt before, as if he were trapped in a strange realm, unable to comprehend the changes happening within him. His body seemed to operate on autopilot, mechanically bringing him home while his spirit had long since become lost in the whirlpool of that ancient book and the student's mysterious words.
James walked into the living room, his gaze drawn to the handbag resting on the table. It lay there quietly, yet its presence exerted an invisible pressure on him. He paused, staring at the handbag, struggling internally. Inside was the book that student had handed him—the unsettling ancient tome with a dark red cover that seemed soaked in blood, emanating an eerie aura.
"Perhaps this is all..." James forced a cold smile at the corner of his mouth, trying to calm himself down. "Just a boring joke."
He told himself it was merely an absurd prank—the student was just trying to be mysterious to grab his attention and draw him into some pointless game. James's rational mind was still attempting to regain control of the situation, striving to categorize everything as an outrageous incident. He even began to doubt whether he was too exhausted and thus susceptible to the student's words.
"Yes... it must be that," James muttered under his breath, forcing himself to believe this explanation as if it would free him from his unease.
However, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, that inexplicable sense of oppression lingered on. The student's words continued to echo in his ears; the weight of the book seemed to press down on his soul. His heart began to race uncontrollably; some instinct deep within him warned—this was not a simple joke; there was something deeper hidden within it all, drawing him step by step into an unknown abyss.
James stood before the table, staring at the handbag with trembling hands. He hesitated over whether to open it again and take another look at that book—did it truly hold some incredible secret?
The pressure in his chest grew heavier; the student's low murmurs still resonated in his ears. He knew he could not continue sinking into this chaotic emotion; he had to calm down and regain his composure. Forcing himself to look away from the handbag on the table, he turned and walked toward the bathroom.
As he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, the outside world seemed to vanish instantly. In the small space stood only him and a mirror. James took a deep breath and approached the mirror, lifting his head to look at his reflection.
He froze.
The man in the mirror bore the marks of time on his face, deep wrinkles etched like scars in stone. The white hair at his temples and his beard made him appear older than his years. His once vibrant eyes now seemed dull, reflecting a weariness and struggle within. He stared into those eyes, as if for the first time truly seeing himself. Once a spirited scholar, brimming with confidence and fervor, he now saw only a face ravaged by time, pressure, and fear.
James couldn't help but let out a low sigh. He rubbed his face vigorously, trying to dispel the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. His hands gently brushed over his cheeks, feeling the rough stubble prickling against his palms. That sting carried a sense of reality, as if reminding him that he was still alive and could regain control over everything.
"Calm down," James whispered to himself, his voice echoing loudly in the cramped bathroom. His fingers instinctively tightened their grip, knuckles turning white from tension. He rubbed his cheeks again, the prickling sensation intensifying, each bristle like a tiny thorn digging into his palm, as if to remind him of the harshness of reality.
Taking a deep breath, James struggled to free himself from that mysterious pressure weighing down on him. He gazed at his reflection, attempting to suppress all anxiety and doubt. That book, that student… everything haunted him like a nightmare, and all he could do was maintain his sanity and not be swayed by such absurdities.
"This is just a silly joke, an absurd story," he told himself, forcing calmness as he had done years ago during every academic debate—staying composed, rational, analyzing everything. Yet even as he reassured himself, the unease lurking deep within him remained ever-present.
He looked again at the man in the mirror; that weathered face was etched with countless experiences of setbacks and solitude. Yet at this moment, it felt as if some unknown force was pulling at his heartstrings, making it impossible to break free completely.
James stared into the mirror, trying to push away the unease and fear; however, his gaze began to blur. He felt that the reflection was no longer just a simple image but rather that aging version of himself was slowly becoming independent—almost starting to converse with him. James's heart raced suddenly; a chill shot up his spine, enveloping his entire being.
Then, unexpectedly, the figure in the mirror moved.
A profound sadness appeared on that weary face; its gaze deepened with pain and helplessness. James's breath caught in his throat as he watched that timeworn visage tremble slightly before beginning to speak.
"Look at us," the reflection murmured in a hoarse and fragmented voice that seemed to come from far away yet resonated clearly enough to make James's heart sink. "This world is unjust, filled with deceit and betrayal. We should have had more; we should have stood at the pinnacle for all to admire our wisdom."
James's eyes widened in disbelief—this shouldn't be happening; it was just his reflection! But the figure continued speaking as if lost in its own thoughts, its sorrowful tone piercing through him like a dull knife into his soul.
"The passage of time has stolen our talents away from us, taken all our glory." A painful smile flickered across the aged face in the mirror as its voice grew low and bitter. "We were once so exceptional, so unmatched! Everyone should have seen our brilliance; they should have been awed by our gifts… but now?" It paused for a moment; its gaze dimmed further with profound despair and resentment.
"Now, what do we have left?" The voice of the reflection in the mirror grew increasingly agitated, the glimmer in its eyes fading away, replaced by an endless void of emptiness and despair. "All that remains is a hollow shell, a name that can no longer stir any waves. Those who once admired us have long departed, and those who revered our talents have forgotten our existence. There is no place for us in this world anymore; we are left only with the erosion of time, quietly awaiting our final demise."
James felt as if an invisible hand was gripping his heart tightly, each word peeling back the deepest scars within him. Everything he once possessed—the glory, the authority—was gradually dissipating in the torrent of time. He knew it was all true; he understood that these words touched upon the reality he could not face. The reflection spoke of his inner pain and helplessness, truths he was unwilling to acknowledge now laid bare.
"We," the reflection sighed, its tone filled with profound sorrow, "we should have had more; we should have made the world remember our names, remember our wisdom. But now, we are merely an old man abandoned by time, a shell. Talent has long since departed from us, leaving behind a useless body waiting for ultimate destruction."
James felt his body tremble slightly as fear and helplessness surged within him once more. He couldn't believe he was experiencing all of this; the reflection had become the most genuine representation of his soul's depths. He wanted to argue, to tell himself this wasn't real, to escape this bizarre scene, but his legs felt as if they were nailed to the ground, unable to move.
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